by Robyn Young
“But no sooner has the grain come in than most of it goes out again, all going south, along with our rents and our wool. I’ve seen families bled dry in Kincardine, unable to feed their children, and it’s getting worse since the fighting broke out. The English sheriffs are coming down harder and harder on all of us because of these rebels.” Duncan glowered into his broth. “They should be out in the fields bringing home what they can like the rest of us, not disrupting what little peace we still have.”
David’s smile vanished. “We have no peace, Father. Not under the English.” He set down his spoon. “We should be joining the rebels, not criticizing them.”
Ysenda shot him a warning look. “Don’t talk to your father like that.”
“But it’s true.” David glanced at Will. “You agree with me, Uncle, I know you do. You don’t want to be sitting here doing nothing, pretending everything is fine, do you?” He looked back at his father, who had gone silent. “When Tom was in Edinburgh he heard William Wallace killed the sheriff of Lanark and overthrew the justiciar at Scone. Sir William Douglas is said to have joined with him, others too. Don’t you want to do something? Don’t you have any pride?”
Duncan jerked to his feet, his face scarlet. He raised his hand to strike David, but faltered at a shocked cry from Alice.
The back door opened and Tom entered. He frowned at the frozen tableau, then nodded tentatively to Duncan. “There’re men coming up the track, sir. Five of them.”
“I’ll come out in a moment,” murmured Duncan, staring at his defiant son. “Go and greet them.”
“Who would it be?” asked Ysenda, as Tom headed out.
Duncan picked up a cloth and wiped his hands. “I don’t know,” he said, crossing to the door. “I’ll go alone,” he added sharply, when Will rose. “I’m still lord of this estate.”
Duncan headed into the oppressive afternoon, anger hot in his veins. But beneath that was an uncomfortable sense of shame. His son was right. He shouldn’t be out with Sir David Graham each week, traveling the length and breadth of his young lord’s lands, both of them under the yoke of the English, draining the people of Kincardine of their food and their money. He should be standing firm with his countrymen against this tyranny. His pride, however, was fighting a more powerful urge to protect his family.
Coming around the house, he saw Tom greeting the riders. Duncan’s heart sank as he saw their mail armor. English soldiers. One of the five was dressed differently, in a fine cloak of green and gold brocade. He remained on his horse while the soldiers dismounted. “Good day to you,” called Duncan, bracing himself as he approached.
“Who is the lord here?” asked the man in the cloak, staring imperiously down. His accent was thick and treacly, the words seeming to stick together as he spoke. The horse tried to toss its head, but he jerked hard on the reins.
Duncan’s eyes moved to the sword that was hanging from the man’s hip, beside a large leather pouch. “I am.”
“I’ve come to collect this quarter’s rents.”
Duncan shook his head. “There must be a mistake. I’ve already paid. A collector came last month.”
“Unfortunately the rents have risen since then.”
“By how much?” asked Duncan, straining to keep his voice calm.
“Father?”
Duncan glanced around as David came out of the house. “How much?” he said incredulously, turning back as the collector answered him. “That’s out of the question. I cannot pay that.”
“We can take other forms of payment,” responded the collector. He nodded to the paddock, where Duncan’s horse, a silky-coated piebald, was tethered. “That’s a fine beast.”
Duncan clenched his teeth. “I need a horse in order to travel to my lord’s lands so I can help seize his tenants’ assets for your lord.”
The collector’s brow furrowed. “Is King Edward, not our lord?”
Duncan glanced at the soldiers, who were surveying the house in an appraising way that made him feel uneasy. He wished suddenly that he’d brought his sword out with him. “Go back inside, David,” he called, hearing footsteps coming up behind him.
“Is this your son?” asked the collector. “A healthy-looking lad. Well fed too. Wouldn’t you say so?” he commented to one of the soldiers.
The man smiled unpleasantly. “Yes, sir.”
Glaring at the collector, Tom stepped in front of the soldier who had answered.
“Times are hard,” continued the collector, shrugging at Duncan. “If you want to blame anyone, blame your countrymen. If they weren’t rebelling against Lord Edward we wouldn’t have to raise the rents. The funds to crush their little mutiny have to come from somewhere. They fight and you and yours pay for it.”
“Sounds like they have enough to win that little mutiny, what with the plunder Wallace and his men took from your justiciar at Scone.”
Duncan whipped around as David’s voice rang out. “Go back inside, will you!”
The collector’s eyes narrowed. “I would keep your son on a shorter leash if I were you. I can always raise the rents some more, should I see fit.” He kept his gaze on Duncan. “But I’m a fair man. Have your manservant here bring me your horse and we’ll leave it at that for today.”
“I’ve told you, I cannot do that.” Duncan took a few steps toward him and lowered his voice. “I will give you more next time. I’m a knight of Sir David Graham, he will vouch for me.”
“This is the last time I will ask you.”
“Listen to me, damn you!” shouted Duncan, frustration getting the better of him.
“Kill him,” said the collector, gesturing at Tom.
Duncan and David shouted at the same time as one of the soldiers drew his sword. Lunging forward, the man thrust it into Tom’s belly. The manservant looked more surprised than anything as the length of steel entered him. The soldier twisted the blade and withdrew it in two brutal movements. Tom crumpled, clutching his stomach, blood pumping thickly between his fingers. He stared at Duncan in disbelief as he sagged sideways, his face screwing up in agony. Before he even hit the ground, Duncan was hurtling at the soldier. At the same time, the other soldiers went for their weapons and David raced toward Tom. There was a scream from the house as Ysenda came rushing out to see Tom go down and her husband running at the man who had struck him.
Duncan ducked under the sword as the soldier lashed out, then barreled into him with a roar, sending him flying. The sword sailed from the man’s hand and his helmet strap snapped as Duncan crashed down on top of him, the impact on the parched soil winding them both. As the soldier’s helmet went rolling away, Duncan, deaf to the screams of his wife and the shouts from his son, grabbed the man’s hair in his fists and slammed his head into the ground with all his strength, his only thought to disable the soldier long enough to seize the fallen blade. As the man went limp, Duncan hauled himself forward and snatched up the sword. He rolled off him as one of the other men came at him. Blocking the first strike while still on the ground, Duncan launched himself up at the second soldier. The force of his blow caused the man to take a few stumbling steps back. When he lost his footing on the uneven ground, his sword went wide, only for a moment, but it was all the time Duncan needed to run him through. He pulled the sword free, hearing hoofbeats behind him and a harsh shout from his son, then felt something punch into his back, between his shoulder blades. His fingers went dead, the weapon slipping from them to thump on the ground. Duncan saw his wife freeze, her arms rising into the air, as if she were about to dance, or pray. Then he felt pain like he’d never imagined driving through him, propelling him to his knees, down into the earth.
The tax collector, towering above Duncan on the horse, withdrew his sword, streaked red. “Kill them!” he was yelling. “Kill them!”
David fell back in terror as one of the soldiers came at him, but as he turned to run, his feet caught in the legs of the man his father had felled and he went down hard. The other soldier made for Ysenda, who
was sprinting toward her son.
A shout tore through the air.
Will was coming around the house, David’s bow in his hands. The arrow was aimed at the tax collector, who had turned in his saddle at the shout. His sword was aloft, Duncan’s blood running down to the hilt, and his horse was stamping, agitated. Beneath the hooves, Duncan lay prone, sprawled on top of the man he’d knocked unconscious. The two remaining soldiers paused, eyes flicking from Will to their master.
Snarling, the collector kicked the horse at Will, who let the arrow spring free.
The collector threw himself sideways in the saddle to avoid it, but Will wasn’t aiming for him. He caught the horse in the neck, the tip ripping through the soft tissue. The horse reared up, then fell, taking the collector down with it. The beast landed on top of him, crushing his leg, still caught in the stirrup. He let out a scream. The soldier going after Ysenda checked himself and raced back to help him. Will yanked another arrow from the quiver on his back, fitted it and fired at the man who now turned on David, still sprawled on the ground. It missed, driving into the soil a few feet away. Will cursed and dropped the bow. Wrenching his falchion from its scabbard, he began to run.
David twisted away as the soldier’s sword hacked down at him. Scrabbling onto his hands and knees, he threw himself forward and snatched at the arrow embedded in the ground. The soldier lunged in. Ysenda screamed. Turning, seeing the sword come stabbing toward him, David curved his body and thrust the arrow up into the man’s groin, above the padding protecting his thighs. He shouted in rage, feeling the barb slice through flesh, going deeper as he pushed. The soldier howled and dropped to his knees. Will came charging up behind. As the soldier tried to lift his sword, he rammed the point of his falchion through the man’s neck, sunburned and dirty beneath the lip of the helmet. David recoiled as the tip punched out of the soldier’s throat and he coughed a spray of blood. Will kicked the soldier in the back, yanking his sword free as the man fell forward, then went for the soldier who was trying to haul the tax collector out from under the horse. Wrapping his arm around the man’s head, pulling it back, he ripped the short blade across his neck.
“No!” the collector shouted as Will loomed over him. “Please! I—”
But his words cut off as Will stabbed him through the throat, the blade plunging into the earth beneath him. Afterward, he strode to the unconscious soldier lying under Duncan and, carefully rolling his brother-in-law off him, ran the man through. Lastly, he dispatched the horse, still thrashing and snorting in pain. It was the only kill he felt any remorse for.
Ysenda, who had run to David and was hugging him to her, turned as Will wiped his blade on the soldier’s tunic. Her face crumpled as she saw Duncan on his back, arms splayed on the dry grass. She crossed to him and crouched, clutching his face in her hands, crying his name. When he didn’t move, her cries became louder; an incoherent torrent she let loose at the sky. David, white-faced and blood-splattered, went to her and grabbed hold of her.
Will sheathed his sword and pushed his hands through his hair, slick with sweat. It dripped from his nose into his beard. “Sweet Jesus,” he murmured between breaths. “Sweet Jesus.” It was all he allowed himself.
He crossed to the house. Margaret was hunkered down in the doorway, her palms pushed against the frame to either side of her. Her lips were moving, but no sound was coming out. Will coaxed her up, gently but firmly. She didn’t resist, but her eyes remained staring past him at her mother and brother draped over her father’s body.
“Margaret, listen to me, you have to fetch whatever money Duncan has here, also blankets, food and waterskins. Get Alice to help you. Don’t let her come out here.”
She wasn’t listening.
Gritting his teeth, Will shook her. “Margaret!” She focused on him. “Do it!” he ordered, turning her forcibly and marching her into the hall. As she stumbled away from him, he headed back outside and went to Ysenda and David. He took hold of his nephew.
David lashed out and struck him on the chin.
Will rolled with the punch. “I need you to be a knight now, David. Do you understand?” David was panting hard, but he had stopped struggling. “You’re going to saddle both the horses and get your bow and your father’s sword and shield. Then you’re going to help me get these bodies into the trees.” Will nodded down the hill to the copse. “Can you do that?”
David pulled roughly away. “Yes.”
Will waited until his nephew began to walk to the house, then knelt by Ysenda, still crouched over Duncan. His sister’s cries were ragged. Unbearable. He knew that grief all too well. It pierced him as he pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her. “We have to leave,” he murmured. “Those men will be missed and others will come looking. There will be no fair trial for this. They’ll come down hard.”
“I cannot leave my husband,” wept Ysenda, her words muffled against his chest. “I cannot! ”
“For the sake of your children, you have to.”
“Where will we go?” she sobbed. “Oh, dear God, where will we go?”
“We’ll go into Selkirk,” said Will, after a pause. “It’s not far. We can find shelter there until the dust settles. With any luck, the English will have more than enough to worry about than the death of some bureaucrat.”
She looked up at him, her eyes swollen. “Kincardine. Sir David Graham. I want to go to him.”
“They can track us too easily there. It’s the most likely place we would go.” Will rose and looked south across the hills, which faded into a green haze. “We go into the forest.”
THE TOWER, LONDON, JULY 6, 1297 AD
“Send word to Earl de Warenne immediately.”
“Certainly, my lord king,” said the clerk, struggling to keep up as Edward strode along the passage.
“He’ll be at his Yorkshire estate no doubt,” said Edward sourly. “If he imagines he can play at lieutenant from the comfort of his manor, he has another think coming. Order him to meet Cressingham at Berwick. They will lead a force from there.” The king’s face was taut. “If these rebels want a war, by God I will send one their way. Tell the earl I want their uprising crushed and the ringleaders’ heads on London Bridge by the time I return.”
Dismissing the clerk, who scurried off, Edward continued along the passage and down a long set of steps, wincing as his joints creaked. The news of the rebellion in Scotland, which had been joined by some of the nobles he had freed earlier in the year, had vexed him greatly. But he had more pressing matters to concern himself with. While he had been preoccupied north of the border, Philippe had strengthened his hold on Guienne. Some of the barons were growing restless with the flagging war in France and had refused to fight in his service. They were gaining support within the royal court and he knew how dangerous mutinous barons could be. Simon de Montfort had taught him that.
Heading into the stifling heat of the afternoon, Edward was met in the courtyard by two of his advisors.
“Your ship is ready, my lord,” said one, as they fell into step beside him. “We can leave when you wish.”
“I want to be in Flanders by the end of the week.” Edward looked back at the Tower rising above him, white and imperious. “Let us see what my dear cousin’s enemies are willing to do to end France’s dominion over them.”
12
Selkirk Forest, Scotland
JULY 20, 1297 AD
Will brushed the sweat from his face with the crook of his arm as he reached the top of the incline. He turned, offering a hand to David, who was scrabbling up behind him. His nephew paused, looking at his outstretched hand, then grasped it, allowing Will to haul him the last few feet. The swollen waterskins sloshing against their legs, they made their way back through the trees, the bubbling of the stream at the bottom of the gully fading behind them.
As they approached the clearing, Will felt his spirits, lifted by the practical task of fetching water, begin to sink again. They had been camped there for only three days, but alr
eady he had come to loathe the stuffy space, enclosed by pines and thorny bushes. Ysenda was fussing over Alice, who had been crotchety following a fall several days earlier. It was a shock more than anything. Her ankle had been sore and inflamed, but although it soon went down, Will using his spare undershirt to make a compress, she complained about it more and more bitterly, until finally she sat down in tears, refusing to walk another step.
Ysenda glanced around as they entered the clearing, then returned her attention to her daughter. Tossing the skins by their packs, David threw himself down in the shade of an enormous red-trunked pine, where his lymer was curled, panting in the heat. Close by, the horses switched their tails at the flies that plagued the air, sticky with the pine smell. Margaret was hunched on a log by the dying fire, jabbing at the embers with a stick. She had lost her coif and her hair hung loose and ratty around her shoulders. Will noticed, with a stab of annoyance, that she hadn’t fetched the wood he’d asked her to.
“I need some water,” Ysenda called.
When David didn’t stir, Will gritted his teeth and crossed to her. Alice was sitting with her back against a tree, her face screwed up. Ysenda had removed the compress and was holding her foot carefully. Handing his sister the waterskin, Will saw that his niece’s ankle was unblemished.
As Ysenda poured some of the icy water from the skin on to it, the girl gasped. “Does that hurt?” Ysenda asked worriedly.
“It’s just cold,” said Will, harder than he meant to.
Alice looked up at him, and her pained expression, which turned instantly to one of petulant dislike, told him all he needed to know.
“How would you know?” the girl challenged. “It isn’t your foot that’s hurt.”
“Neither is yours, Alice.” He tried to keep his voice gentle, though irritation made him want to shout. “Not anymore. It wasn’t even a sprain.”
Alice’s hot little face flushed a brighter shade of red. She went to speak, then burst into tears.
